I met him once again: ’twas where
The warbling queens of song
With liquid music filled the air,
And hushed the listening throng.
Next day he came to make a call
I’d lodgings then at Brown’s—
He stayed an hour, that was not all,
He borrowed two half-crowns.
This world is but a wilderness,
Of grief and tears and pain—
I travel onward—but you’ll guess,
He never called again.
Fun, 1866.
Miss Frump (author of the “Ghoul-haunted Grange,” etc., etc., etc.). Can your little boy read?
Mamma (modestly). Not very well, as yet.
Little Boy (pertly). I can read better than you, mamma.
Mamma. What do you mean, child?
Little Boy. Why, you said you couldn’t read Miss Frump’s new book! [Awkward silence.